


to scream, soundlessly

by Blueberries (Blueberries_Pen)



Series: NonconWhumpKinktober 2020 [14]
Category: DCU
Genre: Branding, Character Deaths, Kinktober 2020, M/M, Noncontober 2020, Olfactory Hallucinations, Public Use, Whumptober 2020, collaring, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:14:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27014113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueberries_Pen/pseuds/Blueberries
Summary: Slade attempts to get Robin to talk.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/others
Series: NonconWhumpKinktober 2020 [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947430
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	to scream, soundlessly

**Author's Note:**

> Day 14:  
> Kinktober: Collaring  
> Noncontober: Public use  
> Whumptober: Branding

He doesn’t want to move. Wants to just lie there, still and frozen, dried tear tracks on his cheeks, curled up and knees tucked under his chin, trying to breathe.  _ In, out.  _ It’s hard. He doesn’t understand why it’s hard. Doesn’t understand why if he stops focusing for a single moment on his breaths, his thoughts start to clamor and spiral, taking so many twisting paths and dizzyingly steep turns that they all jumble up and he forgets something as simple as breathing and  _ chokes.  _

_ I’m here- _

_ -I’m alive- _

_ -I exist- _

He  _ exists _ , separately, apart from the man who calls himself his master. It’s hard to remember, sometimes, that he used to be -  _ that he ‘is’? - _ something more. 

Hands cover his ringing ears and his aching eyes press shut, trying to block everything out. But he still knows. Can still smell the rot wafting off him. It infects him, festering in his throat, blocking it.

No. 

That doesn’t make sense.

Slade allowed him a shower - yesterday? No, no. Today. It had to be today, because his hair is still wet. He shouldn’t be smelling anything. There's nothing in the room either. Nothing but him, Slade _promised._ But he still  _ knows.  _ Knows that he has let himself be ruined, rotten to the core. Still he clings, with all the desperation of a child unknowing of death, to what he is supposed to be, even if he barely remembers.

He breathes out through his mouth, eyes shut and ears covered and nose pinched shut between fingertips. 

_ Like he could ever breathe out the rot in him.  _ An impossibility, but he tries anyway.

Breathe in. Remember who he is. Was. Could never be again. Robin. He’s Robin. He needs to remember that. Needs to remember, because if he doesn’t, no one will. No one could look at him, broken and shivering and cowering and crying and mute, and recognize what he once was. No one left, really, to remember him. So he needs to remember, because Slade won’t, no one else will, so. He must.

_ Light.  _

He whimpers, squeezing his eyes tighter as it burns through even his closed eyelids.

_ Slade. Master. _

He never knows whether to be afraid, or grateful when he shows up. Doesn’t know if Slade will hurt him, or if he will take the pieces he’s so cruelly shattered and try to put them together. Robin doesn’t know why he even tries when Robin will only fall apart again as soon as Slade stops.

A sigh, exasperated. 

“Get up, pet,” Slade orders, and Robin obeys, shivering. “Eyes open.”

Reluctantly, Robin does, and immediately regrets it. Slade’s holding a cattle brand. It burns red, flaming hot, and he stares at it with wide eyes. ‘S’ it reads. As if his master doesn’t own him already. He whines, lowly, pressing back against the wall. 

“If you move, and it gets ruined, I’ll do it again, and again, until you get it right,” Slade says flatly.

Robin tries to stay still, he really does, grasping his arms and hugging himself, but still his body shivers uncontrollably. His body listens so little to himself these days. He wants to be good, to avoid punishment, but-

The brand presses in over his hip. 

Robin lets out a wounded cry, high pitched and wailing and sharp as the sizzling smell of burnt flesh reaches him. It's almost enough to overtake the ever present smell of rot that permeates his skin. He sobs, trying to jerk away, but Slade follows, chasing him with it till he’s satisfied. It always continues until Slade decides he’s had enough - not Robin, it’s never up to him.

Because Robin doesn’t really exist to Slade, does he? There’s only pet, or whore or slut or  _ bitch -  _ no, Robin doesn’t exist. Just a figment of his imagination, a remnant of a more colorful, dreamlike days. Some days, he wonders if those days were false as well. If anything was real at all.

Robin jerks back to the present as the brand is removed, swaying. Before he falls, head swimming, Slade catches him. Robin whimpers again, trying to curl up, but  _ fuck, _ the brand  _ hurts.  _ He hates burns. Hates how the pain just seems to intensify with every second, never stopping. He hates the smell, too. It mixes sickeningly with the smell of rotten bodies. Robin doesn't like it.

There’s something clipped around him, a heavy weight. Collar. 

Robin doesn’t understand why, if he’s so certainly Slade’s, why Slade feels the need to mark him as  _ his  _ in so many ways. Carved letters on his back, the brand on his him, the collar with ‘Slade’s’ written on it, the many,  _ many  _ scars.

He’s  _ Slade’s,  _ marked up in so many different ways, that he knows, immediately, who he belongs to. 

He doesn’t really understand Slade, even after all this time.

What he does know is this - he’s being carried. And Slade doesn’t hurt him more, when he’s being carried. This is safe. So he closes his eyes, sniffles and tries to ignore the pain, and turns to bury his face in Slade’s chest and tries to rest. 

He’s almost lulled to sleep, even, when he’s suddenly dropped. He takes in a sharp breath, scrambles up with teary eyes, clinging to Slade’s foot. He peeks out warily from behind Slade, squirting through bright lights and blurry eyes.

Slade’s men - hired help for a bigger mission - surround him, standing to attention as Slade walks in. 

A hand settles in his hair. Maybe Slade will have him just sit by him as they talk, or make him suck him off or fuck him. That’s okay, he’s used to that, he can do that - not done so often in front of other people but he can  _ do that  _ and maybe he’ll lucky and -

Slade tugs him forward violently by the hair, tossing him into the middle of the men. 

Robin squeaks, head spinning dizzily as he scrambles up.

“Have at him,” Slade says, sounding so disinterested. 

What? No that sounds so silly, his master wouldn’t -

“...boss?”

“Fuck him. Make him suck you off. Whatever. Work off some stress.” 

No. No no _no._

He tries to scramble forward.

“ _ Boy,”  _ Slade says sternly, and Robin freezes. “Stay still and let them use you.”

Robin just looks at him with wide eyes, wanting to protest, to beg, to do  _ anything,  _ but his words stay clogged up in his throat, unable to do anything. Hands touch him, poking and prodding, hesitant at first, but quickening as Slade made no move to interfere, just lounging on the sofa.

His mouth opens, and closes. Trying to speak. To get Slade’s attention. Somehow. Anyhow. But the words don’t come. He sobs, the brand burning and the collar heavy, but he still can’t reach out to his master. Fucking hell, why can’t he just  _ talk?  _ If his voice could just reach Slade - Slade  _ listens,  _ he knows, because Slade used to get softer, every time he begged, before - before all that Robin was died, before he was _locked_ for days in a cell with the dead bodies of the friends he _killed_ and he decayed into _nothingness_ with them, and the litter pieces that remained just  _ couldn’t  _ anymore.

But he has to talk. He has to. His master must want him. 

And if he doesn't obey, the ever present smell of rot will only increase.

His mouth opens, and he tries to breathe out  _ words,  _ actual  _ words,  _ instead of indistinct noises. No words come. What appears, instead, is a cock that shoves itself down his throat.

And so, he remains silent and still and his words, all bundled up and ready on the tip of his tongue, go unspoken.

The stench of rot tickles his nose.

**Author's Note:**

> i meander too much from the prompts don't i


End file.
